


(Used To Be) Love-Drunk

by reni_days



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, please do not copy to other sites, reposted to AO3 by original author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reni_days/pseuds/reni_days
Summary: The headache is the first thing Brendon is aware of.
Relationships: Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	(Used To Be) Love-Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> This story was formerly posted in various places, including Livejournal and here at AO3, but was taken down a few years back due to some RL issues. This is simply a repost of an old fic, no new story here.
> 
> Original notes at end of fic.

~

The headache is the first thing Brendon is aware of. His neck is bent at an awkward angle, and his skull is throbbing like seven hells, and pretty much everything happening from the shoulders up is just very, very bad.

"Mmmpgh," he mumbles miserably. Even through his closed eyelids, the sunlight on his face feels like glass shards stabbing his brain. "Glmphhhrgh."

The world beyond his headache is just beginning to finally register, and so far it's not getting any better. His mouth tastes like something died in there, and his pillow is...rumbling.

Brendon frowns, and then the pillow expands substantially on a deep indrawn breath and reveals itself to be a ribcage. He's pretty sure it's a male ribcage, judging from all the...chest hair.

He thinks about freaking out, but he really doesn't have it in him right now. He feels like _shit._

The ribcage rumbles again, low and soothing, and a long naked leg shifts and twitches slightly where it's trapped between Brendon's.

Brendon keeps his eyes closed very tight, desperately pretends he doesn't recognize the sound of that sleepy rumble--he really _cannot_ think about that right now--rearranges his head into a slightly less painful position, and prays for sleep or death. He can deal with...everything else later. Right now all he wants is sleep. Or death.

Yeah, death. Death is definitely the best plan.

Under Brendon's cheek, Spencer's chest rumbles quietly again, and Brendon breathes in, slow and shaky, and lets himself drift back to sleep.

~~

Waking up the second time isn't any better. If anything, it's worse, because his head hasn't stopped hurting but his brain is, unfortunately, working a little better, and that means he's that much more aware of the naked body sprawled half-beneath his own, the calloused hand splayed possessively over one cheek of his ass, the smell of sweat and come and sex filling up the entire room.

Holy fuck. This is--so, so much worse than bad.

He can't help it; he panics. He has to get out of here, has to- _-oh god oh god--_ untangle his limbs from Spencer's, has to sneak out of this bed and away from all.. _.this,_ he can't be here, this _can't be happening-_ -

Spencer stirs beneath Brendon, groans thickly, and twists his head to bury his face in Brendon's hair. He tightens his arm around Brendon's waist, his fingers twitching and squeezing just slightly against Brendon's ass, and then suddenly everything goes very, very still.

Brendon can't breathe. He's going to be sick. Spencer is going to leave, Spencer is going to _leave,_ holy shit, what the fuck did they _do--?_

"...Brendon?" Spencer mumbles, quiet and cautious. Brendon drags in a shuddery breath, and finally opens his eyes.

Spencer is staring at him, blurry-eyed and bewildered, from maybe four inches away. Brendon is naked and draped all over him, he is _currently groping Brendon's ass,_ and there is a half-empty tube of lube leaking onto the pillow next to Spencer's ear whether he realizes it or not. There is no fucking way to pretend this is anything other than what it is, and Brendon has no idea what to say.

"I--have a headache," he ends up whispering hoarsely, when the pause has stretched on way too long. "I need...a shower, and--some water, you probably do too, we should--I'm. Um. Gonna just--"

He manages to peel himself away from Spencer's skin--a little too literally, at some points, and he doesn't want to think about why--and slide out of bed without ever looking Spencer directly in the face. Whatever dignity he's managed to retain, though, disappears the instant he catches sight of the room around them.

Holy. _Fuck._

The bed is a mess of tangled sheets, blankets pushed off and puddling on the floor. There are at least two-- _used_ \--condoms carelessly tossed on the floor near the bed, and Brendon's unopened novelty box of banana-flavored Trojans is open and apparently half-crushed under the edge of the night table, bright-yellow squares spilling out all over the carpet, obscenely cheerful in the wreckage of the room. The bedside lamp is tipped over onto its side, yesterday's clothes are scattered over every surface--half of the papers on Brendon's desk have been shoved onto the floor, and there is a distinctly lube-like substance dripping sluggishly onto them from the surface of the desk itself--and, worst of all, Brendon's ass feels sore and swollen, the skin of his bare chest and stomach scraped red with what are obviously beard-burns.

Brendon can feel the painful flush crawling all over his skin. He doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

He doesn't remember _anything._

His head is pounding, and his stomach is churning, and he seriously can't handle this right now. He _can't._

"Shower," he mumbles again, just to have something to say, and shuffles painfully out of the room without looking back.

God. They're so fucked.

~~

Spencer is gone when Brendon makes his way back into the room half an hour or so later. He's brushed the roadkill out of his mouth, swallowed a couple more aspirin than was probably wise, and showered himself into some vague semblance of humanity, but the sight of the bedroom still makes his stomach dip and turn queasily.

Spencer tried to clean up a little, that much is obvious. The sheets have been stripped from the bed and piled with the blankets at the foot of it. The windows have been opened to air out the heavy scent of sex, and the condoms are gone from the floor. Brendon's lamp is standing upright again, though one side of the shade is badly dented.

Brendon's chest feels tight at the thought of Spencer stumbling around by himself, trying to clean up the... _evidence_ , but there's nothing he can do about that now. He shuffles over to his dresser and drags on a pair of track pants and a t-shirt, feeling a little better just for having clothes on, which is something Brendon can almost never say, and then makes a half-hearted attempt to gather up the papers from the floor and wipe down the surface of the desk with his towel. After a minute, he gives up and drops the towel into the pile of sheets and blankets. He'll worry about this shit later.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, feeling helpless and sick and scared.

What could have happened?

The last thing Brendon remembers is being out with Shane and Regan. There was a bar--actually, there may have been more than one bar--and they were celebrating, because they had _finally_ set a date, and there was...tequila.

Brendon definitely remembers the tequila.

There was dancing. Maybe even dancing with Spencer. Brendon's face heats at that thought, but it's not like that's so scandalous. How in the fuck does _dancing_ turn into...?!

The smell of coffee wafts in, fresh and tempting, and Brendon makes it as far as the doorway before he pauses, hovering uncertainly between his bedroom and the hall.

What in the hell is he going to _say?_

In the end, Spencer makes the decision for him, rounding the corner with pink cheeks and a cup of coffee in each hand. He pauses, startled, when he sees Brendon in the doorway, but after only a moment, he manages something like a smile.

He hands Brendon one of the cups, and Brendon manages to mumble his thanks around the rim of the mug, hiding his burning face behind coffee-scented steam. For a long, _long_ moment, nobody says anything. They just stand there, sneaking uncomfortable glances at each other over their cups.

"So," Spencer says finally, raking a nervous hand through his hair. "This is awkward, huh?"

Brendon is startled into half a laugh, choking on the coffee in his mouth. "Uh," he manages, once he can breathe again. "Yeah. That's definitely one word for it."

Spencer huffs a breath. "But," he says, a little too loudly. Brendon winces; his headache is better, but definitely not gone. "But it's no big deal. Right? I mean. It's weird, but. Shit like this happens, right? All the time. No big deal."

"Right," Brendon agrees quickly. A bright spark of hope is building in his chest, hope and relief and gratitude. It's almost overwhelming. "I mean, yeah, totally. Shit happens." He laughs nervously. "I don't even _remember."_

Spencer's expression does something weird, but he's smiling before Brendon can figure out what it is. "Me neither. So there's nothing to worry about. We'll just...steer clear of tequila, and call it a learning experience."

"Awesome," says Brendon, and lets himself believe, for the first time all morning, that maybe Spencer isn't going to go away. Maybe this really will be okay. Maybe, maybe, maybe. "So, so awesome."

"Right," says Spencer, and smiles again. "Awesome."

~~

_No big deal_ turns out to be a concept that Spencer does better with accepting than Brendon does.

He's a little weird, sure--he laughs awkwardly in the middle of reaching for a banana on the counter, and reaches for an apple instead. He doesn't quite meet Brendon's eyes when he's talking to him, sits a little further away on the couch than he normally would.

But he does talk, and he does sit next to Brendon, and the banana thing is awkward but he does laugh it off. If Brendon were left in charge of things, he's ashamed to admit, he'd probably have spent the day with Shane, avoiding Spencer at all costs. Spencer doesn't do that, doesn't hide from Brendon or from what happened, and even if his smile doesn't look quite right and he's a little more cautious and hesitant than he normally would be, Brendon can't help being impressed.

And, frankly, a little embarrassed.

It's obvious _Spencer_ isn't going out of his mind trying to remember what they did last night, how it happened, what it _felt_ like.

Brendon can't think of anything else.

He's fucked around with guys before--they all have, except maybe for Jon, at one point or another. Even Brent got a handjob from a merch boy back in the day. It's not like it's a _thing._ It's 2009, boys are hot too and homophobia is gay, whatever, everybody's bisexual by now anyway. Hell, _Brendon's_ bisexual, in a very casual sort of way. In the way that means handjobs and maybe even blowjobs in back rooms at venues or clubs sometimes. In the way that means drunken, laughing makeouts with Bill Beckett at parties because everybody's doing it and Brendon and Bill are both rumored to be the best kissers on the label, so obviously they have to size up the competition.

In the way that means Brendon has never once even actually given any serious _thought_ to the idea of having actual sex with a guy. Until last night, apparently. If Spencer ever has, Brendon didn't know about it.

He can't help wondering about it, kind of obsessively. How did it even happen? Were they making out? How did that happen? What was it like kissing Spencer? He wants to feel like not remembering is a blessing, because it should be that much less awkward this way, but that's not really how it works out. Instead he keeps catching himself staring at Spencer's mouth, his own lips tingling with curiosity. Spencer's beard is probably scratchy and rough when he's kissing; Brendon touches his chin absently and wonders what that felt like. Did Spencer go down on him? Would the beard have been tickly against his inner thighs if he had?

"Brendon?"

Brendon's eyes snap up from Spencer's mouth, only to find Spencer staring right at him, a little wide-eyed and pink in the face. "What?" he croaks. "I mean. What."

Spencer clears his throat, shifting a little in his seat. "I. Was just, um...trying to ask what you wanted to eat. For dinner."

Brendon's face burns. How long was Spencer watching him stare? Fuck, he's an idiot.

"Chinese," he manages to say, after a moment. "We should order Chinese."

Spencer watches him for another moment, then nods. "You give them a call, I'm going to let Bogart out."

Brendon nods stupidly, and reaches for his phone. His hands are shaking.

Yeah, he's fucked.

~~

Nobody ever talks about the morning _after_ the Morning After. When you wake up totally alone in your own bed with an all-too-clear memory of everything that happened yesterday, including all the mortification and awkwardness and anxiety. When you have to walk out of your bedroom and face the world, and pretty much your best friend, without even the fragile shelter of a hangover to hide behind.

Nobody ever talks about that part. Brendon is beginning to understand why.

Today beats yesterday for sheer awkwardness and uncertainty, easy. Brendon can hardly look at Spencer without blushing, and he doesn't even understand why--they're getting some distance behind them, the worst of it should be fading now, not getting _worse._

But apparently, that isn't how it works.

It starts in the morning--well, eleven forty-five, which is when Brendon usually wakes up and which totally still counts as morning--when Brendon is in the kitchen making coffee and Spencer comes up and nudges at Brendon's hip to make him move out of the way of the silverware drawer. Brendon's face burns at the slight touch; he moves jerkily out of the way and actually fumbles with the coffee mugs in his hands. There's no way Spencer didn't notice it. Brendon has to focus really hard on breathing in and out, steady and slow. He keeps his eyes locked on the coffee maker like it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

Later, Brendon edges down the hall on his way to the laundry room, the giant pile of lube- and come-stained sheets and blankets clutched almost guiltily to his chest, and runs into Spencer coming out of the bathroom. There's a long, painful moment where they just stand and stare at each other, and Brendon's brain is a total blank, he can't think of a single thing to say, a single joke that will make this okay. Spencer's expression is impossible to read, and Brendon hates this, he hates things not being okay, things not being comfortable, because this is _Spencer_ and things have always been so easy between them. Spencer chews on his lower lip for a second; Brendon wishes he could remember what that tasted like. His face burns all over again, and he finally breaks the staring contest to look awkwardly down at the bundle in his arms.

Spencer says, "Elf is on." It's such a mundane thing to say, stark and out-of-place in the middle of this weird, charged moment.

"Okay," says Brendon, with difficulty. He can actually smell the sex all over the sheets in his arms. "Be there in a sec."

Spencer hesitates. "Okay," he says, and then he's gone.

Brendon exhales sharply, and goes to wash the bedding.

~~

It's the beginning of a pattern. Over the course of the next three days, Spencer pays for dinner twice (just Thai takeout and pizza, nothing special or even unusual); Brendon's face burns. Spencer bumps into him trying peer over his shoulder into the refrigerator; Brendon's face burns. Spencer smiles at him on his way out to go have some meeting with Pete; Brendon's face burns for fifteen minutes, even after Spencer is gone and Brendon is totally alone in the house.

He hasn't blushed like this since high school, it's fucking ridiculous.

He falls back onto the sofa, yanking a cushion over his face and smothering a strangled sound of frustration in it. It would be better if he could remember, he's sure of it. If he could remember it, then at least he would _know_ , and then he wouldn't have to keep _thinking_ about it all the time, and he could have regular thoughts and conversations like a normal person again. He used to be really good at that. He never used to trail off halfway through a sentence because he was distracted by the way Spencer's fingers looked, wrapped around a can of beer, and then sort of just forgot to think about anything but what those fingers must have felt like inside him. He never used to stand in the middle of the kitchen for five or ten minutes at a time with the refrigerator door open because he made the mistake of absently peeling a banana and the second the smell hit his nose he couldn't think of anything but flavored condoms and the idea of Spencer's dick in his mouth.

If he knew, if he could _remember_ , he wouldn't be having these problems.

Unfortunately, he doesn't know. He doesn't remember. He does have these problems.

"Holy shit!" He sits up abruptly, the cushion falling to the floor. "Holy _shit!_ Shane!"

He dives for his phone.

~~

Shane laughs for ten full minutes before he manages to calm down long enough to make himself understood. Brendon would kill him if it wouldn't make Regan so sad.

"Dude," Shane wheezes, once he's finally reasonably coherent again. "You--seriously? You and _Spencer?"_

Brendon's heart sinks. "So we weren't--? At the bar, you didn't see anything?"

Shane has to laugh for a few more minutes before he can actually answer. "Oh my god, oh my fucking god. Um. No--I mean--"

"Yeah?" Brendon holds his breath. "You mean what?"

"Well. I mean." Shane hesitates. "You guys did seem kind of--I don't know! You danced with him, I guess you were kind of--but it was a _joke,_ I mean, you were laughing, I didn't think--"

In the background, Regan says something incomprehensible, and Shane mumbles something back at her. Then there's a muffled thump, and Shane says, "Ow, hey! Bitch!" and Regan laughs brightly before apparently stealing Shane's phone.

"Shane's a dick," she tells Brendon, not bothering with a greeting. "And a _boy_ , why do you even ask him questions like this? The answer is, yes, you were flirting with Spencer pretty much all night. He was flirting back, it was cute. What happened? You really don't remember any of this?"

Brendon's heart is racing. "I really don't remember," he says weakly, avoiding the first part of the question. There's a vague image in his head--the backseat of a cab, Spencer crowding Brendon sideways in the seat, a sense of dreamlike, breathless anticipation and tequila-flavored breath against his mouth--but Brendon doesn't know if it's a real memory, or just the fevered imaginings of his increasingly crazy brain. "Flirting...flirting how?"

"Flirting the way you always do," Regan says easily, and Brendon's world turns kind of upside down. "You know. Giggling at each other, buying each other's drinks, touching arms and knees and sitting really close. You danced together, that was sweet. And also hilarious. Oh, and you kind of got all pouty and resentful when he started talking to that girl at the bar, do you remember that part?"

"No." Brendon can't really concentrate on what she's saying anymore. His brain is busy repeating, _flirting the way you always do, flirting the way you always do, flirting the way you always do,_ and he's not sure that's going to stop happening any time soon.

Five days ago, if Regan had said that to him, Brendon would have laughed. He would have laughed, and fondled Spencer's knee, and said, "Hear that, Spence? I'm _flirting_ with you," and Spencer would have laughed too, and Brendon would never have thought another thing of it. Five days ago it would have been meaningless and funny, but _four_ days ago, Spencer had apparently fucked Brendon hard enough to half-destroy his bedroom-- _twice_ \--and Brendon can't pretend that hasn't changed everything, because it _has_.

"I think maybe you should talk to Spencer," Regan is saying carefully in his ear, and Brendon yanks his thoughts back from the ether and tries to focus.

"I--" He doesn't want to talk to Spencer. Not about _this_ , what the hell would he say?

Shane snatches the phone back before he has to figure out how to answer. "Oh my god, woman, do you know nothing? Ignore her, Brendon, she's a woman, she can't help it."

Brendon laughs weakly, because he loves both of these idiots even if his world is falling down, and spends a few minutes listening to Shane and Regan bicker over the importance of communication in relationships versus the Official Rules of Manliness before rolling his eyes fondly and hanging up on them. They won't even notice he's gone.

He flops back down on the couch again, staring at the ceiling.

_Flirting the way you always do,_ says Regan in his head. _He was flirting back, it was cute._

Brendon pulls the cushion back over his face, and sighs.

~~

Spencer comes home with three bags of groceries, and Brendon determinedly follows him into the kitchen to help him put them away.

No matter what else happens, he can't let this ruin them. Not him and Spencer; his heart clenches at the thought alone. He can't lose Spencer.

Spencer rambles cheerfully as he puts away all the frozen foods; Pete had brought Bronx to the meeting, so absolutely no business got accomplished at all, because it is a fiercely-guarded secret that Spencer cannot be anywhere near a baby without melting into a cooing, cuddling, funny-face-making puddle of mush.

Brendon is fucking crazy about him.

It's weird, it's just-- _there_ , sudden and obvious and staring him in the face in the middle of Spencer's earnest explanation about how Bronx can almost say his name now--well, he can say "Pen" and point at Spencer, and that totally counts, right?--and Brendon is clutching a new box of Sweet-N-Low, and Spencer hates that shit but Brendon has a weakness and somehow Spencer always knows to buy it anyway when Brendon is starting to get low, and Brendon wants to know what his mouth tastes like so badly that he almost can't breathe for a minute.

It's the scariest fucking thing that's ever happened to him.

~~

He avoids Spencer for a day or two after that.

He doesn't mean to--well, okay. That's a lie. He totally means to. It's kind of a dick move, and he knows that, but he can't deal with all of this right now.

Besides, it's not like it's all that difficult to do. He spends a morning helping Shane find a Christmas gift for Regan. He spends that afternoon helping Regan find a Christmas gift for Shane. He spends part of the next day closeted away in the practice room pretending to write, and he and Spencer have plans to go to a party at Pete's in the evening, but that's no big deal. Brendon can mingle. It's not like he has to be attached to Spencer's side _all_ the time.

He's digging through baskets of clothes in the laundry room, swearing to himself, when Spencer wanders past.

"Everything okay?" Spencer asks, and Brendon manages a smile. He's not avoiding; he's just strategically arranging to be someplace else sometimes. Nothing wrong with that.

"Just trying to find my belt," Brendon says, waving a dismissive hand. "The white one? I've looked everywhere, I wanted to wear it tonight but I haven't seen it in --"

He snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening as he suddenly realizes exactly what he's saying. The white belt is the one he was wearing _that_ night. He hasn't seen it since--oh god.

"You know what, fuck it," he says, very fast. His face is burning again, he kind of wants to die. "I'll wear the red one, I like it better anyway, I'll just--"

He edges past Spencer, trying not to breathe or move too much or let himself notice the way their bodies brush together in the doorway. He almost makes it, but Spencer grabs his wrist just before he manages to slip out into the hall. Brendon is startled into meeting his eyes.

For once, Spencer is blushing just as brightly as Brendon is, maybe more so. He's staring at Brendon with an awkward sort of intensity. Brendon stares back, helpless.

"You should--" Spencer swallows. He's standing so, so close. Brendon wants. "You should...check. In the, uh, couch cushions. Maybe."

His hand disappears from Brendon's wrist and he's halfway up the hall before Brendon registers what he just said.

_You should check in the couch cushions._

Brendon's entire body flushes hot and tight, and his breath catches in his throat as he watches Spencer disappear around the corner.

Holy shit.

Spencer _remembers._

~~

Brendon isn't avoiding Spencer anymore.

If anything, he spends the next few days kind of cautiously circling him, close and quiet. He hovers in doorways like a creep, watching Spencer pay bills or do his laundry or talk on the phone. He stares at Spencer instead of watching TV, gets distracted the one time they try to actually work on a demo and forgets half the words to the song, follows Spencer from room to room like some kind of demented duckling, unable to back off and make himself walk away.

Spencer doesn't say anything about Brendon's weird behavior; he goes about his business with pinker cheeks than normal, and just lets Brendon trail around after him and stare. Sometimes he stares back. Brendon doesn't know what the fuck is happening anymore, but it feels like _something_ is.

The belt had been exactly where Spencer said it would be. Brendon had stood there, frozen, for a long moment after he found it, just staring. He hasn't stopped picturing the scene ever since--falling through the door together, kissing and pushing and pulling at clothes, tumbling onto the couch all fumbling hands and urgent mouths, Spencer's fingers yanking at Brendon's belt--

He can't take this. He can't take the not knowing anymore.

"You remember."

He blurts it out in the middle of the kitchen. Spencer is holding a frozen pizza in one hand and setting the oven to pre-heat with the other. He goes very still, staring at Brendon across the room.

"What?"

Brendon's face is burning again. He swallows. "You remember. You said...you said you didn't, but you do."

Spencer sets the pizza down very carefully. He doesn't quite meet Brendon's eyes. "I...yeah. Not--everything. But. Yeah. I remember."

It's not like Brendon didn't already know that, but hearing him say it out loud still makes it kind of hard to breathe. Brendon swallows again, thickly. "Can you--tell me?"

Spencer's eyes widen. "Tell you?"

"I..." All of a sudden, it's like Brendon can't even control his own mouth. Things just start falling out. "I can't stop thinking about it. Wondering. I--don't remember, but. I want to _know_ , you know? I need to, I can't--I just. I want to know, and you--you could tell me, and I wish--please. Tell me."

"Brendon," Spencer says shakily.

"Please." Brendon exhales sharply. "Please."

There is a long silence in the kitchen. The air feels thick and heavy, and Brendon's skin is buzzing a little, and his chest feels tight, his skin scratchy and hot. He wants to fidget, wants to twitch around and shift his feet and tap on the countertop and _do something_ , but he forces himself to be still.

Spencer wets his lips nervously. "What, uh. Do you want to know?"

Brendon can't breathe. "How. Um. How did it...start?"

Spencer's cheeks are so, so red. Brendon wants a thousand things he can't have.

"Uh. In the--in the cab. On the way home. We, uh--I kissed you." Spencer makes a vague gesture with one hand, then catches himself and braces both hands against the counter like he wants to keep them still.

Brendon thinks about the not-quite-memory of the cab ride. "Yeah," he says slowly. "And--what did I do?"

Spencer stares. "You, uh. You kissed me back."

Yeah. Brendon licks his lips. "And, uh. Then what happened?"

"We, um. We got back here and--I let us in, and then. You were still--we, um. We were on the couch, and things started. Getting more serious. So. We went to your room, and then. You, uh, pretty much can probably guess the rest."

Brendon feels almost dizzy with want. "Tell me anyway."

He has no fucking idea what he's doing, and Spencer's eyes are wide and dark and they're just standing there, staring at each other from across the kitchen and Brendon is already hard. Maybe Spencer can see. Brendon doesn't care.

"Fuck," breathes Spencer, so quietly that Brendon almost doesn't even hear him. "Okay. Okay. We--in your room, I, uh. I took your clothes off. And you helped me with mine and then. Um."

He seems like he's going to stop. Brendon takes half a step forward in involuntary protest. "And then?"

Spencer closes his eyes, exhales sharply through his nose. "You sucked me off," he says, and his voice is lower, rougher than it was. Brendon's entire body is on fire. "I...made you stop, I wanted--I told you I wanted--"

"You wanted to fuck me," Brendon says hoarsely, and Spencer's eyes open again.

"I--yeah," he manages. "I wanted to fuck you."

Brendon has to physically stop himself from pressing his palm against the front of his jeans, right there in the kitchen. He's practically swaying on his feet. "And then what happened?"

The ding of the oven timer cuts straight through all the tension in the room, loud and abrupt. Spencer stares blankly at the pizza like he's forgotten what it's there for, and Brendon presses the heels of his shaking hands against his closed eyes, trying to get control of himself. What the fuck are they _doing?_

"And then, uh, we had sex," Spencer finishes awkwardly. "Is that...what you wanted to know?"

Brendon pulls his hands away from his face, forces himself to meet Spencer's eyes. "Yeah," he manages, as calmly as he can. "Yeah, thanks."

Spencer turns away, grabs the pizza and busies himself with peeling off the wrapper and sliding it into the oven. "No problem."

Brendon stares helplessly at him for what feels like forever, but Spencer doesn't turn back around.

Eventually, Brendon makes himself turn and walk away.

~~

_You sucked me off, you sucked me off, you sucked me off--_

Brendon barely makes it out of sight of the kitchen before he's reaching for the front of his jeans, pressing his palm against his cock and bracing his other hand against the wall. He stumbles blindly down the hall, flicking open the button on his jeans.

_I wanted to fuck you_.

He bites back a groan, yanking down his zipper before he's even reached his bedroom doorway, his head falling forward, breath coming harsh and fast. Fuck, fuck, he can't--

He doesn't even hear Spencer coming up behind him. He's just there, all at once, gripping Brendon by the shoulder and twisting him around, and Brendon doesn't even have time to register what's happening before he's being pushed up against the wall, Spencer crowding in close and hot against him.

There's no warning. Just Spencer's mouth sliding over Brendon's, fast and hot and holy _fuck_ , Brendon's head is spinning. He groans, stunned and overwhelmed, and tilts his head back to let Spencer take his mouth.

"Fuck," he gasps, when Spencer stops to take a breath, but Spencer just presses forward, pinning Brendon to the wall with his entire body, hands tangling in Brendon's hair, thigh sliding between Brendon's legs, and Brendon's hips are twisting forward almost before he even knows what he's doing, rubbing himself shamelessly against Spencer's hip.

Spencer slides his hands down Brendon's back and over his ass, gripping tight and pulling forward to grind Brendon's cock more firmly against him. He lets go with one hand, fumbling for Brendon's wrist and yanking it forward to press Brendon's palm against his own cock through the front of his jeans. Brendon makes a choked, desperate sound, scrabbling at Spencer's button.

Everything is vague and hot and blurry, almost dreamlike. Brendon whines when Spencer tears his mouth away, but Spencer lets his head fall forward and pants into his ear and fuck, that's good too.

"You were all over me," Spencer mumbles, and Brendon's hips buck. He yanks Spencer's zipper down, jerking clumsily at his waistband until he can get his hand on bare skin. Spencer hisses in a breath, and keeps talking. "At the club, in the cab--fuck, it was...I didn't know what to think, I kissed you in the cab and you just--god. We barely made it to the couch, and then you were in my lap with your hand on my dick and I just wanted--I just--"

He captures Brendon's mouth again, pushing his own hand past the waistband of Brendon's boxers, and then there are calloused fingers wrapping around Brendon's cock and Brendon feels like he's on fire. Spencer's strokes are quick and rhythmic, not like Brendon, whose hand feels stupid and uncoordinated where it's trapped in Spencer's pants. He pants against Spencer's mouth and tries not to come yet. He can't believe this is happening. This can't be real.

Spencer pulls away again, pushing his face into the curve of Brendon's neck and pressing more words into the burning skin there.

"I didn't think we'd actually fuck. I just wanted the lube, you dragged me to the bedroom to get it but then you were sucking me off, and fuck, your mouth--I wanted--I--"

"Lube," Brendon manages, squeezing tight around Spencer's cock just to hear him groan. "Lube, that's--good idea, we should--"

Spencer lifts his head, bites Brendon's lower lip. "If we go into that bedroom, I'm going to fuck you again," he says, and Brendon's eyes roll back a little bit.

"Yeah, _yeah_ , Spencer, shit--"

Spencer groans against Brendon's mouth, and then they're stumbling through the bedroom door and everything is moving so fast and not fast enough and Brendon can't even breathe as Spencer presses him down into the bed and grinds against him.

It's uncomfortable - almost to the point of pain - because their jeans are still on, just open in front, and zippers are grinding together against sensitive flesh and Brendon's hips are twitching as much with discomfort as with mindless want, but it's good, it pulls him back from the edge enough to keep him from coming all over himself at the slightest touch. He pulls ineffectually at Spencer's t-shirt, and Spencer laughs at his clumsiness but his eyes are dark and his breath is coming harsh and fast, and _fuck_ , Brendon can't imagine how he ever forgot what Spencer looks like like this, no matter how much he'd had to drink.

Spencer ends up getting his own shirt off, and Brendon's too, and then they're both kind of scrambling gracelessly out of their jeans and boxers and everything is suddenly miles and miles of hot skin and slick biting kisses, and shit, maybe Brendon's going to come all over himself after all.

Spencer fumbles in the drawer for a condom and lube, and it suddenly hits Brendon really powerfully just exactly what they're doing here. It's not his first time, obviously, but it _feels_ like it is, because he's never done this with anyone else and he doesn't _remember_ the last time. It's kind of terrifying, and there's a moment where he almost freaks out all at once and calls the whole thing off, but then Spencer's got one slippery finger tracing low behind his balls and skimming over his hole, and Brendon's hips roll helplessly, because holy _shit._

"Yeah?" mumbles Spencer. He's staring really intensely at Brendon; his eyes are so blue.

"Yeah, yeah," babbles Brendon, and spreads his legs. "Fuck, _Spencer."_

It's weird, the feeling of Spencer's finger sliding in - it's weird and full and kind of uncomfortable, but there's something about it that's hard to explain. Brendon's face burns and it's not that it feels good exactly, but this is...out of everything he's ever done, literally only Spencer has ever touched him there, he feels spread open and _exposed,_ and it's the most intensely _sexual_ thing he's ever experienced. His mind is still busy breaking apart when Spencer's finger curls against something and Brendon's back arches involuntarily.

"Fuck!"

"Yeah," mutters Spencer again, feverish. He looks hot and overwhelmed and maybe a little uncertain, which actually makes Brendon feel a litle better about how much this whole thing is wrecking _him._

One finger is replaced with two and then eventually three, slow and careful, and it stretches and burns and feels so weird, but also it never stops sending fiery sparks across his skin and making little lights burst behind his eyes, and by the time Spencer finally has the condom rolled on and is pushing inside, Brendon is sweating and panting and clutching at the sheets with white-knuckled hands.

Spencer groans, low and loud, and Brendon so full it hurts, but holy _shit_ , Spencer is _fucking him._ Spencer is fucking him and Brendon twists up to kiss him again, he doesn't want this ever to end but he's been on the edge for so long now that he knows there's no way he's going to last.

He doesn't last. Spencer barely manages to get a hand around Brendon's dick before he's coming, and even _this_ feels different this way - a slow devastating wave, boiling up and over instead of hitting bright and hot.

"Fuck," he whispers again, and opens his eyes just in time to see Spencer's head fall back, his mouth go slack while his hips go still and his body shakes helplessly. Spencer collapses on top of Brendon, and Brendon hides his face in Spencer's neck. _"Fuck."_

~~

Brendon wakes to the feel of warm skin under his cheek and a long naked leg trapped between his own. He keeps his eyes closed very tight, and breathes in and out.

He slept with Spencer.

And-- _oh._ This time he remembers every second, Christ. He wills himself not to get hard at the memory alone. At least, not until he's managed to work out what the hell happens next.

Somewhat belatedly, it occurs to him that there is no soothing rumble coming from the chest beneath his head, and his heart skips a beat. Looking up to meet Spencer's eyes is one of the scariest things Brendon's ever done.

Spencer is watching him, neutral and cautious. For a moment, nobody says anything. Then,

"You going to run away again?" Spencer asks, so quietly that Brendon wouldn't have even heard it if he weren't laying practically on top of him.

Brendon swallows. He doesn't know quite how to read that tone. "...No?"

Spencer's expression doesn't change. "Good."

Brendon isn't sure what to make of that. "Um. Are you?" he asks carefully. Maybe he should get off Spencer's ribcage and let him move.

Spencer is still watching Brendon closely. "I didn't run away last time," he says evenly, and Brendon's breath catches in his throat.

"You," he says, uncertainly. "Spence--did--?"

"We should get up," Spencer says, and he's avoiding the question but not Brendon's eyes, and really, that's kind of answer enough. Brendon's chest squeezes so, so tight.

He wants to blurt out a thousand things. Things like, _I didn't know,_ and _I'm so fucking crazy about you,_ and _I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ He doesn't say any of them.

Instead, he tightens his arms a little and holds on. "Maybe, um." He licks his lips, still nervous in the face of all this. Everything is changing again, and Brendon doesn't know what he's doing. "Maybe we could just...stay here. For awhile."

It takes awhile, but Spencer's expression finally-- _finally_ \--relaxes. "We really do have to get up," he says. Brendon's heart sinks a little. "We have to let Bogart out. And maybe shower. And brush our teeth. But." He smiles, just a little, and Brendon wants to kiss that smile. He wonders if he's allowed, now. "After that," Spencer continues, squeezing his own arms a little tighter around Brendon, "we could come back."

Brendon smiles, exhales a relieved little puff of air into the skin of Spencer's chest, and tries to ignore the way his heart is rocketing around in his chest and his pulse is racing like a kid with a crush. "That--yeah," he manages, and laughs a little. "That sounds...good."

"You want first shower while I get the dog, or second shower while I make the coffee?"

Brendon lets himself be shoved out of bed, stealing surreptitious glances at Spencer's long naked body on his way. Spencer catches him at it and laughs, turning pink across his nose and chest and shoving Brendon that much harder, but he looks...happy.

Brendon beams at him, unable to help it, and just like that, the whole thing finally clicks into place. It's not that it's not still new and different and kind of weird, but it's--

It's _Spencer_. It's Spencer and Brendon and that's not going to change, no matter what else they might be adding to it.

"You take the dog, I'll take the coffee," he says, pushing to his feet, and then impulsively leans down and covers Spencer's mouth with his own, just because he can.

Spencer kisses him back, lazy and sweet, but breaks away before they can get totally lost in it. His eyes are warm and bright. "I suggested brushing our teeth for a _reason_ , asshole," he says, and plants his hand over Brendon's face, pushing him away. "Go shower and clean that fucking swamp out of your mouth, I've got to get the dog."

Brendon laughs and does as he's told, moving as fast as he reasonably can.

He's got a bed to get back to.

~~

END

**Author's Note:**

> Original posting notes: 
> 
> Unbeta'd. This was originally meant as the [info]drawn_to fic I thought I was turning in. It's horribly written, especially the porn, but this is part of the "clear-your-hard-drive" amnesty thing going around right now, so I just threw together some sex and I'm posting it cold. *hands* Sorry, guys. Parts of this story were seen by…basically everybody. If you saw this and were encouraging about it at any time in any state of completion, thank you.


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